


running cold running hot

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Drinking, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Making Out, Post-Canon, Post-Episode Ignis Verse 2, Promnis Week, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, Wedding Parties, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 06:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17483096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: He doesn’t know which one of them leads the way down the darkened corridors; he just finds himself facing the door into their apartments and -- he’s fumbling in his own damn pockets for the keycard, and Ignis is right there, plastered against his back, and he groans long and low in his throat because Ignis is kissing him again, tongue and teeth against his skin like the worst tease in the entire world.





	running cold running hot

**Author's Note:**

> _written for[promnis week 2019](https://promnisweek.tumblr.com/)_   
>  _nsfw take on a theme from day 4: Prompto is Ignis’ date to a royal function_   
> 

He’s willing and more than happy to sit in a corner of this party, this time: there still aren’t a lot of decent reasons to hold some kind of dinner-party event in the Citadel, not when people are still picking themselves up and out of the ruins of the long night, but even Noctis had seen reason to let this one happen. No more than ten small tables in a corner of one of the lesser ballrooms, and no more than six people to a table, and a riot of rare and bright flowers on each table.

He empties the bottle next to his plate into his wineglass, and grins as Iris whirls by in her elaborate skirts, her wife Licinia in her arms, and he raises that same glass to them -- though they probably don’t see him and that’s all right, he can’t be offended, not when the two of them look so radiant and so powerful. Not when they’re both wearing white skirts and veils anchored with elaborate silver pins in the shapes of shooting stars, that had been Noctis’s gift to the two of them; not when the bridal dresses are both cut so low in the back that Iris’s tattoo and Licinia’s scars are on full display.

Gladio goes past, too, laughing as he waltzes with one of the off-duty Glaives, and Prompto takes that as his cue to head back to the bar -- and he’s still able to navigate the place, expertly, even when the wine’s starting to go to his head. And why wouldn’t it be? Cold as winter’s heart at midnight, and yet sweet and refreshing at the same time, the wine in its jeweled-red depths is ridiculously easy to drink, and -- he’s already lost count of how many little bottles he’s emptied.

But then -- he hasn’t exactly been alone in the drinking.

Speaking of which: Ignis has been gone for a while now, and he’s starting to miss pouring for him.

So he asks for three of the little bottles to take off to his rooms instead -- they’re handed over in a thermal bag, which is kind of cute and kind of useful and he thanks the person behind the bar -- and he’s excusing himself past Talcott and Aranea when -- 

“There you are.”

The world and the sparkling lights overhead go clean out of his mind -- he’s already reaching out, and the first brush of Ignis’s now-bared hand against his sends a lightning-spear of warmth down his nerves, and he doesn’t really care who might be watching as he catches him up in a mostly chaste kiss -- 

“Not that I’m complaining, but -- ” he hears Ignis say.

“So don’t complain, come on,” he says.

“I just got back here.”

He blinks away the pleasant haze on the edges of his vision, and chuckles for Ignis’s ears alone. “So?”

His reward is the sharp interested hiss of an inhale, and Ignis’s hand clutching more tightly at his. “So. All right. Lay on, then.”

“Most everyone’s about to go anyway, we’re not exactly sneaking off.”

“I suppose Noctis is gone already.”

He laughs, a little. “I guess that’s one of the perks of being a King. Or maybe you’d know?”

“State secret,” and then Ignis laughs, quiet and rich and rippling, and Prompto nearly drops the wine, caught completely off-guard. 

He doesn’t really hear that kind of laugh out of Ignis when they’re outside of their own shared quarters. 

It isn’t until he’s located the nearest empty elevator and ushered Ignis in that he peers into that beloved face, and -- there, there it is, the tiniest hint of a flush, delicately spreading up towards Ignis’s temples. “Oh my gods we were already drinking and I was trying to get you drunk -- where did you go and what did you have?”

The first answer he gets is -- a hand on his chest, pushing him into the corner of the cabin, and even as he’s torn between the impulse to stay where he’s been put, or push back into Ignis’s personal space instead, Ignis is descending onto him, kissing him, and Prompto groans, leans into that need, that burns him with every gasp for breath and yet he can’t ever get enough -- he opens his mouth, half-pleading, half-gone already --

And with every kiss he thinks he can taste the answer to his question, heavy and rich on Ignis’s tongue, and filling him up, too, with every kiss, with every shared breath. Smoke and honey overtones and the sharp liquor-taste beneath, because of course Ignis likes to drink the really good stuff, when he lets himself indulge -- Prompto nearly laughs, then, wondering just how much faster he’s going to get drunk on this, on all of this, on Ignis and on all of the wine he’s already poured down his own throat tonight -- 

“Share with the class,” Ignis murmurs against the corner of his mouth, and the rumble of those words makes Prompto shake and press closer, yearning, light-headed. 

“Pretty sure I’m drunk, is all,” and how he manages to string the words together he doesn’t know. “Not on the wine, or not just. It’s good stuff though -- this is good stuff,” and he catches at Ignis’s free hand, and leads it to the bag that he’s still miraculously carrying, its fragile contents entirely intact. “I don’t know what it is but it’s so good. Sweet but -- wow it kicks hard, it just did,” and he stumbles closer, and the kiss he’d meant to press to Ignis’s cheek lands against the gorgeously sharp angle of his jawline instead, open-mouthed.

And -- Ignis _shivers_ in his arms. “Prompto.”

“Oh gods,” he says.

The next few moments pass by in a blur of sweeter and deeper kisses: and just as he’s reaching to hit the emergency stop button on the elevator’s control panel, the entire cabin comes to a smooth halt and the doors sweep open.

He doesn’t know which one of them leads the way down the darkened corridors; he just finds himself facing the door into their apartments and -- he’s fumbling in his own damn pockets for the keycard, and Ignis is right there, plastered against his back, and he groans long and low in his throat because Ignis is kissing him again, tongue and teeth against his skin like the worst tease in the entire world.

“Either let me up for just a minute or give me your keycard,” and he swears under his breath immediately afterwards because Ignis only laughs and bites -- hard -- at the lobe of his right ear.

He swears he hears the roar of his own blood in his ears, the tidal rush of lust along all his nerves and straight down to his groin. 

It’s probably a miracle he makes it through the door with the wine -- he doesn’t quite throw the thermal bag into the angle of the nearest couch -- and he turns around and grabs Ignis by the collars of his jacket. “You’re damn lucky I love you,” he says, not quite laughing, and not at all reproachful -- and Ignis chuckles right in his face, and closes the gap between them once again, with a kiss.

“Yes, I am lucky, aren’t I -- my love.”

This time Prompto lets himself be borne straight down to the floor -- the last flicker of reason that goes through his head is a thought or a hope that one of them has managed to close the damned front door -- and then he’s arching right up into Ignis’s marauding hands.

Oh, but he’s determined to give as good as he’s getting, and he fumbles Ignis’s coat and shirts off, too, and when he succeeds in unbuckling the belt he goes right for his prize, he shoves his hands straight down the backs of Ignis’s trousers, hands flexing greedily.

“Eager aren’t we?” And right on the heels of the words -- rip, there goes Prompto’s undershirt -- again -- he can’t even complain because Ignis isn’t just kissing at his throat. 

“Fuck, Iggy please,” he groans, head thrown back to bare even more of his skin to that mouth, those teeth, that tongue -- and he swears again, louder this time, at the touch of Ignis’s fingertips against his chin, making him turn his head, to expose the other side of his neck. 

He wants those bruises, he needs those bruises, and he tells Ignis so: and the response he gets is just as good, just as hoarse. “Tell me where you want them. Tell me, Prompto.”

“Anywhere you want just make me feel it?”

Laughter thrills along his straining nerves -- and Ignis’s hands at his flies, peeling all the rest of his clothes away.

Oh, gods, he feels himself getting harder and harder, as he stares up at that beloved face. The need that lashes at him, mirrored back. 

“I don’t have to see to know you look beautiful,” he hears Ignis say.

He’s still trying to think of a response when Ignis leans back down to him and bites a vicious kiss into his chest, over his heart, and Prompto shouts, wordlessly, teetering dangerously on the edge of his orgasm already.

“Ah-ah, you’ll wait for it, won’t you?” Grip of Ignis’s hand around the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and Prompto tries to catch his breath and can’t: he feels, he needs, the wine’s made him so sensitive and so damn horny and why is Ignis doing this to him? Kiss after bruising kiss -- 

“Please,” he mewls, again, and he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for any more -- all he can do is give in, give over, trusting in Ignis to know where this is all going. To throw him off the edge of his senses, and also catch him and save him at the end of his fall. 

“I’ve got you.”

There, there, affirmation -- the all-consuming warmth of bare skin against his own -- Prompto blinks, dazed, and Ignis is leaning over him, smiling in his direction, whispering.

“All right?”

“No,” he laughs, he thinks he’s laughing but he’s also clutching more tightly at Ignis’s shoulders, he’s also arching more desperately into that body that’s covering him. Contact, contact, he needs Ignis so much, and he can’t even ask for it in proper words. “Need you please.”

“As much as I need you,” and when Ignis kisses him again he unravels, gratefully.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/) \-- or, hey, if Tumblr becomes too rotten and we can't talk there any more, there's always Twitter, where I am @ninemoons42.


End file.
